En Route
by Meredith Bronwen Mallory
Summary: An Imperial secretary meets a mysterious stranger en route.


*gasps* I actually wrote a shorty! Never mind all the chapter fics I'm 

supposed to be working on... @_@

Anyway. ^_^

This... this is weird. It's second person, present tense, and kind of

off-beat-- but I hope you enjoy it! Hopefully every one gets who the

stranger is by the end. If not, then I screwed up. As always, I beg and

plead for feedback!

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En Route 1/1

by Meredith Bronwen Mallory

mallorys-girl@cinci.rr.com

http://www.demando.net/

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You're out of breath by the time you reach the transport, you take the steps two at a time and hold the small, veiled cap in place with your hand. The stupid, delicate little shoes your cousin convinced you to wear slip and teeter as you mount the boarding platform, and you secretly fear you might just break your neck. A less-than-stellar ending to a horrible trip. The stewardess-- a pretty Twi'lek girl with long head-tails the color of twilight-- scans your chip and smiles in what you think is amused disgust. As if she has room for pity, you think unkindly, she's lucky she's got work, what with the Emperor's new human code. You brush past her quickly, feeling all the more disheveled and just a little bit cruel. Under your smooth, A-line coat -- the one you bought so you'd look like a sophisticated lady-- your dress has fallen off one shoulder. 

You push past the passengers blocking the isle, using your small travel bag as a shield, and murmuring excuses under your breath. Once you get a clear view of the cabin, your heart sinks. At first you thought riding first-class on the return trip might be fun, but that was before you met your cousin and the rest of snobs at their Alderaanian 'summer house'. Instead of filling you with excitement, the sight of the delicately bronzed ladies, their carefully dressed lovers and well-maintained droids fills you with a type of self loathing. How you must look in your faded gloves and 'even-if-it-does-look-new' second hand coat! Miserable, you retrace your steps, looking for a seat towards the rear. 

"Is this seat taken?"

You're afraid to approach the woman sitting in the back. She seems so removed, her fine profile turned towards the window. Her hands are wrapped tightly around each other, protecting. You don't know her, but you get the feeling she doesn't want to touch anything. You repeat the question, looking around anxiously. There isn't another seat to take. 

"Oh." She turns to you, her gaze gives you form. A brief pause, movement of lips, like the memory of language. Then, "No, it isn't."

You smile weakly, "Thank you so much. I'm not so sure of myself, around here." A smile from the other woman. She seems ancient, not old, but like the statues of Death and Victory on in Coruscant; breasts bared, hair wild about the face, wings and weapons held high. Gratefully, you heave your small travel case over the arm of the chair and sit down, settling it into you lap. Silence; the woman turns back to the window, but it's so dark outside, so how can she see? In your mind, you attribute some magic to her; perhaps she is not looking outside, but at some long-ago memory. Nervously, you fiddle with the buttons on your coat, undoing two because you're warm, buttoning one because you're cold. You feel coltish, out of place.

"Thanks again," you cough after the words escape, but what else can you say? Nothing else to initiate conversation with, but you still flush with embarrassment.

"Hmmm?" the woman turns, blinks once, then gazes on you like a mother. "Don't mention it." 

"I almost missed the flight you know," you babble, watching her face, unable to stop the words from coming out. You really want her to talk, but you have to offer something first, an fair trade. "This is my first time off planet."

"Oh?" she must see it in your face, this curiosity. Her mouth still holds the sad ghost of a smile-- probably the only way she *can* smile-- lightly, loosely. She knows you want to talk to make her talk, that you want to dip into the strange black waters lurking behind her eyes. A moment hangs between the two of you, suspended; the beginnings of a spider's web. She could turn away, back to the window and her hand-woven thoughts. You wait for her to do this. Instead, she asks, "Do you live on Alderaan, then?" The most she's spoken to you, six words. Even her voice is extraordinary, soft, like the fall of night. You can't place the accent. You've never met anyone who talks like her.

"N-no," you flush, shake your tight curls, "That is, ah... this is the return trip." Offering her a half-smile, "I still haven't gotten the hang of this."

A pause, the woman looks down her hands, which are white and bare as snowflakes.

"You will. You get used to traveling, after a while." Quietly, as if it's a secret. Maybe it is. 

"Yeah, I hope so. I--" you feel her eyes on you, and a rush of adrenaline. "-- I do hope so." There is a flicker of motion on her face, some light expression, something that might once have been genuine friendship. Whatever it is, it can't seem to make its way through the invisible veil thrown over her face. She inclines her head, wisps of mahogany hair falling against her temples, presses her hands to her abdomen and turns away. 

For a while, you just stare at the braids coiled the the nape of her neck. The work is delicate, smooth but somehow frayed, as if she hasn't bothered to take care of it in a while. It must cascade to her ankles, when and if she lets it down. Something must have happened to her, to make her stop caring for herself-- your imagination again, and you chastise yourself for being so nosy. A waiter droid comes around, inquires in its modulated tones if you would like anything to eat or drink. You order Alderaanian sun-fruit, thinking happily that there will be no one here to look at you strangely as you gobble it down. Your seat mate nods to the droid, but says she does not want anything. Spearing the fork into the soft, fleshy fruit, you inhale the addictive scent and indulge yourself. In a few days, you'll be back home and working at your dreary desk in the Office of Immigration. Why not live while you can? The juice bursts against your tongue, sweet and light, sliding down your throat. You close your eyes and tilt your head back, savoring. 

"Good, isn't it?" your seat mate, looking at you with interest. You blush, even if you know she doesn't think you without manners just for having a healthy appetite. 

"Yes," you nod enthusiastically. Carefully, you pluck up a piece with your gloved fingers and hold it up. "Do you want some?"

"Oh, no." For the first time, you realize just how thin she is beneath her dress. It looks comfortable, if heavy-- black with red fretwork and as faded as your gloves-- but it hangs off her shoulders like she hasn't eaten in a while. She continues, "I'm really not hungry. Besides, you should enjoy it." You open you mouth to say you really don't mind, then send your curls flying as you turn your head to the other end of the cabin.

One of the ladies is on her feet, laughing loudly, with her mouth so open that it looks like it's dripping with red. She's plump but moves like she isn't, balancing on her shoes, which are roped with gemstones and look like delicate instruments of torture. Fairly prancing, she moves before a row of what must be her male friends, then she takes a seat in one of their laps. This must be her lover, you think. Then you get a good look, and your mild shock becomes disgust. She's sitting in the lap of a cyborg, you just didn't realize at first because you've never seen one before. You've heard plenty about them, though, and now that you're looking more closely you're sure it is one. The artificial hair almost covers the display panels wrapped laid into its head, but its the waxy color of the skin and its unusual height that give it away. The noble-woman --she must be one, to afford a cyborg-- begins to wiggle in it's lap, smiling lavishly at the real men and laughing again when her dress rides up to her hips. It's an awful display, but you can't seem to tear your eyes from it. You hear the woman beside you take a disgusted breath through her teeth, and finally manage to turn your face. Her expression is lax, almost indifferent, but there's something-- perhaps the barest narrowing of her opal eyes-- that suggest she feels as you do. 

"It's horrible," you say, and then wonder why. Surely this woman was once in the highest circles, a glittering real gem amongst synthetics. She must have been the envy of all, so true and... You hunt for the word, find something whispered once, but not to you. The word wasn't used properly-- at least, not way you think it should be used-- when you heard it, but now the word can be used the right way. Angelic. 

"Yes, it is," her look is far way even while her eyes are on you, "It wasn't always like this."

You purse your lips, "What do mean?"

"Houses have always been," she pauses, "decadent, but not to the point of... depravity. You'd have one or two like that, yes, but as a general rule there was some honor to be held, even if only for appearance's sake." She must be older then you, to know something like that. 

"I.." you begin, then look at your hands, "I guess I wouldn't know. I mean, I was pretty young when the Emperor came to power," you lower your voice, somehow feeling the danger of the situation. She leans towards you to catch your words, "That is, before he took the title, you know. When he did, it didn't really much of a change. It seemed kind of like he'd been in control a long time." There's something in her eyes now, burning bright. Anger-- though not at you. 

"How old were you?" she asks. 

"Eleven," you murmur vaguely. There's a little memory in you, unfocused and faded, like an old painting. Something happened to Mother, but you don't really remember what it was.

The woman beside you frowns, but somehow it doesn't mar her features, "How old are you now?"

"Me?" you say stupidly, looking down, "I'm seventeen." You were right, at least by her expression, she is a good deal older than you. Maybe, you hope secretly, she's surprised that you're only seventeen. Perhaps she thought you looked older, like you aimed to. Self consciously, you set your empty bowl aside and take your hat off, setting it atop your little bag. You have to ask the question, no matter how rude, "Why are you in first class, then, if you don't like it?" The look on her face is a substitute the laughter she can no longer make; laughter not at you, but at herself. 

"You're definitely seventeen," she gestures to you with one of her slim fingers, "Stay as honest as you are." You blush, unable to remember anyone ever saying anything that nice. She continues, "My friend paid for this, he insisted. Otherwise, I wouldn't be able to afford it."

"Your friend?" you ask, curious. She shakes her head, seemingly uncomfortable with the turn of conversation. Silence gathers carefully, little threads of light, until you're sure you've offended her.

At last, she asks, "So, where are you heading?"

"Coruscant," you say, thinking of the little apartment you share with your sister. It's hard enough to afford, especially with the little salary from the Office of Immigration. You sister helps to pay, too, since she's older and more responsible. At night, she goes to classes in one of higher levels, hoping to marry up. You wonder distractedly if anything has happened while you've been gone. Maybe-- what is his name? Needa?-- proposed while you were gone. Your sister is beautiful, smart, almost perfect in your mind. Maybe she has snagged him, maybe he's on one knee asking her to marry him even as you sit on the transport beside this beautiful stranger. Funny, how all these things can fit into one word. The name of a planet, nothing else. "And what about you," you ask your seat mate, "where are you going?"

"Oh," she says, as if --but how can it be?-- she hasn't even thought about it. Perhaps she is always like that, forever moving. She stretches her arms before her, arching her back elegantly as she looks at you from the corner of her eye. "I'm not sure, I suppose I'll just keep going until I find someplace."

"You mean, you don't have some place you have to be? You don't have anywhere to go?" you ask incredulously. Such freedom seems impossible. 

She drops her eyes, curling her body inwards as her hands come up to reverently touch the amulet of ivory hanging about her neck. "No," she says quietly, "I have no where to go." A voice fills the cabin, formatted in several languages, explaining indifferently that the ship is close to the stop-over station in the Norad system. You'll have to get off there, switch to another transport that will take you home.

"You could come to Coruscant," a childish suggestion. The other woman shakes her head, though her moon-mysterious eyes say she understands.

"No," her fingers trace along the amulet, "no, I can't do that." Suddenly-- your imagination is running away with you again-- you think she must be a widow, or a mother of the dead, such is the grief she holds in her body. Silly, of course. 

You settle back in your seat, trying to give the woman privacy. Brushing your black hair from you face, you contrive to look at the necklace covertly. It must be important, if she handles it with such care. It's held around her neck with soft thread, black and woven together. She holds the amulet between her fingers, tracing over the cravings as though she is blind and can not read them any other way.

"That's so beautiful," you say without meaning to, "Where did you get it?" The woman raises her head, making a small noise of question before she sees where your eyes rest.

"Thank you. Someone... someone I cared about a great deal made this for me," she moves her lips like she's forcing the words out. You smile without meaning to: how romantic! 

"You mean he carved it himself?" it's almost like a breath, the way it comes out. You're thinking how lucky this woman is, how loved she must be (have been?). You think the little carved amulet is better than any ring. 

"Yes," she's not looking at you now, just staring straight ahead. Like she's looking for something she doesn't ever expect to find again, like someone running after a thief in the darkness.

"Hey," the words are firm, you surprise yourself, "Maybe I don't know what I'm talking about, but... If someone took something from you, take it back!" You have her attention now, it swells around you like mist. Her eyes widen, dark obsidian disks floating in opal shards; her mouth opens, her lips move to a smile, a *real* smile. 

"Thank you," the way she says it makes it seem like more, "Someday, I hope to do that." The words disappear beneath the automated chiming that informs you that the ship is docking. That's okay, you hold the words in your mind, the way she said them. Her voice is expressive, ocean deep. 

You don't speak as the stop-over station takes the transport into it's hold, and neither does she. You're sorry you have to get off, even if you hate first class and can't afford it, and you almost ask the woman if she wants to come with you. As you smooth your hair, you try to think of how to word the question, but nothing comes to mind. Instead, you position your hat like a crown and draw the veil over your eyes. Someday, you hope you have the elegance this lady has-- you want that intristic strength more than beauty or money. The droids come out, rolling down the aisle to collect the dishes and left-overs, before there's another announcement. 

'All passengers bound for Coruscant, Malestare and inner-core systems, please exit the vessel.' You tighten your grip on the bag, climb to your feet. To your pride, you don't teeter in the impossible shoes. 

"Goodbye," says the woman, looking up at you. There are so many secrets in her face, but that's probably you imagination too. "I hope you get home safely." It's more than just polite curtsey. 

"Thank you," you say, wetting your lips. People are pushing past you, trying to get to the exit. "I hope... I hope you find a place you like." Her smile-- a second one!-- is her thank you, and you want to add that you also hope she takes back what was stolen from her, but the line is moving and you have to go with it. Towards the door, you look over your shoulder to find her still gazing on you. Then you step out onto the ramp and into the din of the station, all movement and voices shouting. 

You find your next flight on the bright board listing, your thoughts drawn by longing back towards your home. You're almost sure, somehow, that Needa has proposed to your sister, that she'll meet you at the door and show you the pretty little ring he gave her. It's not an amulet, of course, and tomorrow you'll have to go back to work at the Office of Immigration, where you'll turn Bothans and Dugs and Twi'leks down for citizenship because of the Emperor's rules. Somehow, you find it in yourself to smile anyway. You just want to go home.

And when you get there, you'll be sure to tell your sister all about the beautiful stranger you met en route.


End file.
